


The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: Volume 3

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Series: Marriage [9]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Loves Will, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Licking, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Swearing, They Flip, Will Loves Hannibal, references to murder, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: Will feels the constant prickling shadow of his old life - and old morality - threatening to disrupt the fragile harmony he and Hannibal have built. And when past and present collide, an even greater threat presents itself...My grateful thanks toPKA42for betaing.Chapter 1 can also be read in the Radiance Anthology, created bylovecrimebooks.I was delighted to be partnered withhanni-bunny-lecterfor the 2017 Murder Husbands Big Bang; their breathtaking art can be found throughout.Special thanks to a lovely Fannibal,shukkhy, for commissioning a jaw-dropping illustration for the end of Chapter 3 from the extraordinarythenecronon.Andshoegazerxhas created a fabulous picture for Chapter 5.Dedicated with love to my beautiful friendwraithsonwings.





	1. Of Blood and Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wraithsonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Breathe._

Cloudbursts of peonies scattered on the marble floor create a forlorn trail of white amidst shattered clay. Their scent mixes with the cloying coconut sweetness of red orchids and, beneath that, the acrid tang of sweat and panic.

_Breathe._

Fists clenched, scarlet-spattered, where he rests them on either side of the door frame, forehead against the glass, Will winces at the shrill insistence of the buzzer. Just for a moment he considers not letting Hannibal in. 

The moment passes.

Not because he's afraid anyone will hear. The nearest road is a mile-long hike down a winding dirt track. This house was chosen for its remoteness, the sort demanded by royalty and rock stars. 

No, the reason Will finds himself reaching for the latch and slowly unbolting it has nothing to do with discretion and everything to do with the man whose roiling impatience he can _feel_ vibrating through the two inch barrier separating them.

_Breathe._

A blast of cool morning air as he pulls wide the door. It soothes the fevered heat in his cheeks and he draws another deep breath, exhaling slowly. Raises his eyes to Hannibal's, seeing for an instant in their inky, glittering depths a reflection of his own worry and exhaustion. Until a slow blink dissolves the connection, drawing down a veil of blankness. Will feels his way tentatively around it.

'You found me.'

'I did.' 

Beneath the careful tonelessness, a tender scorn. _Foolish boy, I will always find you._

'I had a feeling you would.' Hesitation before adding, 'I'm glad you did.'

'Are you?' Quiet, grave. Indifference that sets a dull ache throbbing in Will's chest.

_My fault. Too busy building forts again, listening to the wrong voices._

Both have yet to move, the distance between them as effective a barrier as the door. 

'Yes.'

Hannibal's only response, a fractional head tilt. Still he doesn't cross the threshold, doesn't comment on the fact that Will is clad only in the jeans he left their house in the previous day, torso and feet bare.

'Why?'

'Because – because I wanted you to –' A bead of moisture trickles down his temple and impatiently he dashes it away, mildly surprised when he glances at his fingertips and registers vivid smears of red.

'To what, Will?'

' _See_.'

Expelled on a sigh, gossamer soft, almost mournful, the word shimmers between them before dissolving on the air like sugar in water.

'Where?'

Unnerving restraint, all emotion expunged. This is the Hannibal of old: watchful, calculating, unreadable. _Have I lost you? Have I finally pushed too hard?_ Will swallows his fear, points down the hallway to the dining room, stands to one side. He's careful not to touch Hannibal as he passes. Tries not to mind that Hannibal doesn't attempt to touch him. The blood, after all, is everywhere.

He follows slowly, slick warmth beneath his feet, pressing tacky prints into the cold, smooth stone. Into the spacious dining room where the scent of flowers is heady, mingling with other, less pleasant aromas.

_He was terrified at the end._

As if examining a painting, Hannibal regards the scene with a thoughtful hum, forefinger tapping slowly against pursed lips. When finally he speaks, his eyes remain trained on the table.

'Your design has evolved.'

'I've had practice.'

A mental tally of his conquests: Hobbs, Tier, Dolarhyde. Arguably, Chilton.

'Yes. Fascinating that every death is different, each victory uniquely flavoured.'

A ghost of a smile. 'Lazy punning, Doctor.' 

Hannibal spares him a swift assessing glance. 'Are you injured?'

Shakes his head. 'I'm fine.' 

None of the blood sprayed across the canvas of his body belongs to him.

Hannibal's gaze is a sharp caress, no sooner felt than withdrawn and Will feels the loss of it like a slap.

Dismissed.

Yet he devours Will's grisly centrepiece with greedy eyes, radiating hunger. And something else. Pride. 

Visceral, savage. Unspoken. Undeniable.

'What do you see?' Will steps closer, the words wrung out of him, eager for reconnection after a night apart, a rare occurrence now.

Silence coils around them as Hannibal continues to study the bloody diorama.

'Judgement.'

Will swallows, an audible click in the deathly hush. 'Yes.'

'You took him apart, laid him bare, rearranged him. A physical dismemberment in exchange for the psychological one he attempted on you.'

'And you.'

A defensive note has crept into his tone, a remnant of Will from _Before_ hissing self-loathing and recrimination in his ear. 

_Look at what you are. Look at what you've Become._

Easy to ignore when they were still learning each other, losing themselves in the newness, the novelty. Playing house. Playing normal.

_You're not normal. You were never normal. And now you never can be._

Hannibal inclines his head in gracious admission.

'Indeed.' Still no warmth, though his tone is relentlessly soft. 'Yet you chose not to involve me.'

'I didn't plan this.' Runs shaky fingers through his hair. Wishes he hadn't when they come away sticky. With a grimace, he wipes them off on his jeans. They'll need burning anyway.

Hannibal turns to face him, expression mild. 'He attacked you?'

Will shifts uncomfortably. 'He'd been attacking us both. For weeks.'

'Will.' A gentle finger beneath his chin brings their eyes almost level. 'I did not ask for justification. I too have been known to act on impulse.'

'Then why are you so pissed?'

Hannibal's thumb strokes his bottom lip almost absently. 'We had an agreement.'

'He forced my hand,' Will mutters, eyes sliding guiltily away. 

His first kill since the Dragon. Lids fluttering closed, he inhales shards of memory, fractured, gleaming razor-sharp. Of flesh tearing and hands clutching; of eyes meeting in helpless adoration; of salt spray and salt tears. Streaming. Stinging. Cleansing. A baptism of gushing blood and a benediction of mingling breath as Will's tender mercilessness takes them down, down, down…

'You wanted him to. Isn't that why you came alone?' Fingertips trace lightly over Will's cheek, smudging bloody freckles, following the path of the pale, dissecting scar. 'A risky move, sweet boy.'

An endearment usually breathed in tender worship against warm skin, now almost hissed as Hannibal's monster flexes, restless beneath skin, muscle and sinew. Unsatisfied, resentful, hunger unassuaged. 

Guilt lodges tight beneath Will's ribs. Eyes blinking wide, he reaches out, seeking comfort and conciliation. Half expects rejection but Hannibal meets him halfway, fingers curling tight around Will's outstretched hand to tug him close, free arm winding about his waist. Pressing his forehead to Hannibal's shoulder, Will sighs shakily. Inhales the scent of the man he loves to shameful distraction _despite_ and _notwithstanding_ and _even in the face of_. He smells like home.

'You see judgement. What else?' 

'Wrath.' Murmured into his hair. 'Beautiful in its savagery.'

Will responds with a soft nuzzle, relaxing in increments. ' _Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?_ '

'An interesting parallel. Was he a king?'

'In Jack's world? A pretender maybe.' Turns his head to regard the remains with contemptuous eyes. 'A corrupt hypocrite certainly.' Will's jaw clenches, anger flaring bright again at the memory of how the man had attempted to play them. To divide them. Had come so close to succeeding.

Fingers stroke through his hair, sifting, petting. Separating the matted curls with little care for the spreading streaks of red.

_We're both stained now._

'And when you look upon your work, how do you feel, Will?'

'How do I _feel_?'

A discordant note in the symphony of their lives, silenced.

An irritant, swatted.

_How do I feel?_

'Justified.' _Horrified._ 'Relieved.' _Disgusted._ 'Sick.' _Exhilarated._

The arm around him tightens. 'You're still fighting what lies beneath.'

Hesitation, then, 'Yes.' Gently. 'Always.'

Face tilted to Hannibal's, Will resists at first, the kiss too soft, almost a cruelty in contrast to what has gone before. Breaks off before he is totally subsumed. Breaks off but not to pull away.

'It doesn't change this. It doesn't change us.' The words feel heavy on his tongue. 

'No matter.' Hannibal smiles, a beautiful, dreadful illumination. 'If you tried to leave, I would fight to make you stay.' A whispered vow. 'I would fight for you, Will.'

Above the mantelpiece, edged in gilt, the mirror frames their strange tableau. Joined in tender embrace, curled around each other before the mosaic that was once a man. Will sees, shudders, guides Hannibal's mouth back to his own. Guilt-edged.

Their lips meet again and again, kisses desperate and fierce. Punctuated by pleas just as desperate, just as fierce.

'Don't stop. Don't ever stop.'

'What, dear boy?'

'Fighting for me. Don't ever stop fighting for me.'

'Never.' Palm cradling Will's jaw, Hannibal's voice drips tenderness. 'Never, Will. Not as long as I still breathe.'

Something unfurls, blooming sweetly, pushing aside the snarling, fractious monster within. A new creature, coaxed into preening life by unfettered adoration shining from dark eyes. Its existence prophesied years before, given shape and name by the man anointing Will's face with reverent kisses.

Radiance.

Will smiles. 'Then breathe, my love.'

_Breathe._


	2. Of Pleasure and Play

Will is close. So close it's taking every ounce of control he has to make this last. And, oh god, he wants it to last. One palm splayed on Hannibal's chest, his other hand grasping Hannibal’s hip for leverage, Will looks down and watches his bright red cock sliding in and out of his husband. His fingers tighten and pull at silvering hair covering firm pectorals, and he almost comes when Hannibal emits a loud growl in response. Strong thighs tighten around Will's waist.

'Harder.'

Gasping, Will blinks away salty beads of sweat that trickle down from his hairline to catch on his eyelashes. Stretches low to capture Hannibal's parted lips in a hot, messy kiss. Sucks on his tongue before pulling away and dipping to nose at Hannibal's nipples. One bud then the other. Stimulates them to hard peaks and takes one between his lips to suckle hungrily.

'Will. Will.'

He'll never tire of hearing that throaty plea, of seeing in dark eyes the sheen of tears usually held in check – tears of wonder, of devotion, of rapture.

'What?' Between rasps of his tongue across the sensitive, reddened nub. 'What do you want? Tell me.'

Hannibal reaches around to cup Will's ass, fingers squeezing muscles already taut with pleasure.

'I want you to come. Come inside me. Let go for me.'

Will looks down between them, at Hannibal's cock pressed dripping and swollen between their bodies.

'Not yet,' he pants, stilling his hips with monumental effort. 'I want to feel you, first. In me. Get me ready, Hannibal.'

Before he's even finished speaking, Hannibal's shifted to sit up as far as he can. He reaches around to trace over Will’s hole with one fingertip. Will grabs the bottle of lubricant from the bedside table.

'Slick yourself up. Me too.'

Taking the bottle, Hannibal grins, pupils blown and face flushed. 'Were you this bossy with your other lovers?'

Will huffs a low laugh. 'You really want me to talk about my other lovers while I'm still inside y– oh god, yes.'

Hisses his pleasure as Hannibal begins working him open. Will's cock throbs, still buried deep.

'Are you sure you don't want to come?'

'Not. Playing. Fair.' Groaning, Will bites down on his bottom lip and pulls out. Almost before Hannibal has time to react, Will's sliding forward to straddle him. ‘Again, please.’

One finger becomes two, two become three, sending Will into near-frenzy as the tips brush against his prostate.

Reaches down and tugs at Hannibal’s wrist. Smiles when the fingers are immediately withdrawn and guides Hannibal's cock inside him instead.

'Mm. Better,' he purrs, eyes half-closed as pleasure coils deep and low. Nuzzles beneath Hannibal's chin, planting wet kisses against his throat, collarbones, nipples. Rolls his hips. Again. Again. Lost to sensation: heat, tightness, friction.

As he undulates, spine curving in a delicious bend, Hannibal grasps his cock. Will looks down with passion-glazed eyes as long fingers enclose and squeeze and stroke, only the tip peeking out, scarlet and glistening.

Another hungry kiss shared, a delicious sweep of tongues, before Will arches again, gasping, thighs trembling as he comes hard in Hannibal's hand. With a growl, Hannibal rolls Will onto his back, still joined, hands clamped to his hips. Will squeezes his eyes shut to feel Hannibal thrust hard and deep, each urgent stroke bringing him closer to the edge, until he follows with a long, low groan.

They shower together in the master bathroom. It's a ridiculously high-tech affair, a wet room with water jetting from invisible holes in the ceiling to mimic rain. But Will refrains from teasing Hannibal too much about it because at least here there are only four bathrooms as opposed to fourteen.

Will sighs with enjoyment, Hannibal's fingers spreading through his hair, working delicately-scented suds into curls grown wild again.

'Admit it,' he drawls, hands trailing lazily up and down Hannibal's thighs. 'If you'd been allowed to buy the land, you'd have built another six-story monstrosity.'

Hannibal is unperturbed, continuing his slow massage. 'Not at all. I bribed the owner to allow me free rein with the property's design. And with the amount I transfer into his Swiss account every year, renewing the lease is merely a formality. To all intents and purposes, this house is ours.'

'Mm.' Swaying, Will catches Hannibal's mouth in a gentle kiss. 'Fine. I'm duly impressed by your self-discipline.'

He allows Hannibal to walk him backwards into the spray, to cradle his head with gentle palms as foam cascades down his body in creamy rivulets, to press reverent lips to the column of his throat. In this they are equals, worshipping each other by turns. Ten months married, nine months settled in a place they can finally feel safe. And true to Will's prediction, cosy domesticity has yet to pall.

Yet something crawls beneath his skin – a disquiet, an unease which, were he challenged to explain, he would deny is of any consequence. Still it is there, a lingering presence since Argentina, since Alana and Margot... A shadow of past torment, of past morality, of Will from _Before_ , that taunts him with soft jabs in solitary moments.

It prickles at his skin now and he slides his hands around Hannibal's neck with a sigh, seeking comfort and distraction. Feels Hannibal's arms wrapping around his waist in response, nose nuzzling his temple.

'Time for bed?'

'Mm. And a quiet day tomorrow.'

'And the exhibition tomorrow night.'

'Ah yes.' Will presses a smile into Hannibal's shoulder. 'Your beloved art festival. How could I forget?'

'Will,' Hannibal chides, an undercurrent of tension pulling gently between them, 'how many events have I asked you to attend in the last nine months?'

'Okay, okay. I admit you're due some playtime.' Keeps it light. Tugs Hannibal's head down into a languid kiss, slow and deep. 'But me first, hm?'


	3. Of Questions and Shadows

Aiden and Lucas Jensen-Hunt, the famous US-Lithuanian multi-millionaire philanthropists no one will admit to never having heard of, stroll arm-in-arm through the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes and, as always, heads turn irresistibly in their direction. Cuba doesn't boast much of an expat community, but that's fine because they prefer to live in relative obscurity, making only the odd appearance at events like this, part of the month-long Havana Biennial art festival. 

Every two years, Old Havana's museums and halls are thrown open, playing host to the best international artists: painters, sculptors, performance. And Will's favourite urban spaces are such as these, colonial relics still defiantly standing, old money and old violence soaked into the walls, cracked and peeling. Inside, some rooms have been painted over, new lighting fitted, benches installed where patrons may sit and gawk and try to understand. 

In the main gallery they part, stalking in perfect symmetry between large clusters of guests; the men in tuxedos, the women vivid in butterfly hues. This is a popular event and Hannibal is quickly snared by a fawning member of the US InterNations expatriate contingent. Will can feel Hannibal's barely-restrained contempt from across the room; sees it in the impatient set of his jaw, the stiff line of his shoulders. 

_Well, this was your idea._

Suppresses a smirk and turns away to study an oil painting of bold strokes and rich, earthy tones. Emaciated trees and spiked flora jostle uneasily for space in a red, arid, hostile landscape.

A dark-haired man, tanned, long-limbed and sharp-featured, sidles up beside Will. His eyes dart across the canvas, thin lips turning down at the corners. He reminds Will of a lesser species of predator.

'Carlos Enríquez Gómez,' he reads from the plaque beside the painting. 'You like this? I find it all,' dismissing the painting with a sweep of his arm, 'a touch melodramatic.' Bares his teeth in a wide grin, side-eyeing Will.

_Definitely a hyena._

'I think that's the point,' Will replies dryly. Sips from the glass he's been clutching since they arrived. Up until now, he hasn't felt the need for it.

'Ah yes, the poetry of art.' The man laughs. It's grating – a shade forced – and it sets Will's teeth on edge. 'I'm afraid it's rather lost on a poor lawyer from Virginia.'

'A _poor_ lawyer?' Will quirks a brow. 'I wasn't aware there was any such thing.' Pauses for a beat too long before adding, 'Joke.'

'Oh, yeah. Funny.'

Both smiling, neither meaning it.

'Ah, here you are.' 

Will barely holds back a snort of derision. As if Hannibal wouldn't have been acutely aware, for even a moment, of what was transpiring on this side of the room. 

'Would you care to introduce me?'

_Smooth as glass and just as potentially deadly._

'We hadn't gotten that far yet.' Just a trace of irritation ripples the calm of Will's reply, but Hannibal's eyes narrow fractionally in acknowledgment.

'Well then, let's take care of that right now. I'm Sam.'

Open. Friendly. _Why are you so friendly, Sam?_ But Will plays along.

'Aiden. And this is my husband, Lucas.'

'Good to meet you both.'

The hand that grips Will's is clammy. He resists the urge to wipe his palm on his suit pants afterwards, finding amused distraction in Hannibal's carefully hidden distaste at being subjected to the same treatment.

'I, er, saw you talking to the expat brigade just now.' Sam's voice lowers confidentiality as he addresses Hannibal. Chummy. _Oily._ 'They tried to enlist me when I arrived.'

'Not a fan?' Hannibal's barely keeping the boredom out of his voice.

'Not an expat.' Another insincere smile, eyes darting constantly between Hannibal and Will. 'I'm just over here to unwind for a while. See the sights, soak up the sun and all that.'

'Then I hope you enjoy your stay.' Hannibal's already turning away and it takes all of Will's self-control to force down a grin. Watches Hannibal being accosted by yet another fan, a member of the wine-tasting club Hannibal joined the previous month and now seems to be running. 

'Sorry,' Will manages, with a degree of sincerity that's just about believable, eyes still on Hannibal. 'He's very popular and he feels that he has to mingle at these sorts of events. We're... patrons of the arts. Among other things.' Sips his wine, waiting for the other man to excuse himself and move on.

He steps closer. 'Actually, you might be able to help me.'

Will raises an eyebrow. 'With?'

'An investigation. Sort of.' He shrugs casually. _Too casually?_ 'A client of mine, and a good friend, came over here a couple of months ago on vacation. I waved him off at the airport myself.' A pause. 'Thing is, he hasn't been heard from since.'

Will frowns, the old investigative instincts stirring. 'What's his name?'

'Raspail. Ben Raspail.' Sam shakes his head. 'I don't know what to think but I sure am worried about him. His family has a permanent rental on a property over here and I'm using it as a base while I look for him.' He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and takes out a small card. 'These are my contact details. If you could ask around? And your husband?'

Will takes the proffered card with a nod. 'Of course.'

When he rejoins Hannibal a few minutes later, he's still thinking about the missing man, and recounts the conversation he's just had. 

'Ben Raspail?' Hannibal purses his lips. 'Benjamin Raspail,' he repeats thoughtfully.

Will places a hand on his arm. 'What?'

'Unless two such individuals existed in Maryland, I knew him. He was a patient.'

'A patient?' Sharply indrawn breath . 'Did you –'

'I did not.'

But there's something... Something shifting behind the veil, crouching in the dark. 

Will squeezes his husband's arm.

'Hannibal? If you did, just tell me. I need to know, if I'm going to deal with this jackass.'

Hannibal's only response is a raised eyebrow, but it's enough to project his displeasure at being doubted loud and clear.

'No, of course you didn't. Sorry,' Will mutters. But the evening's mood is well and truly broken. 

At least they haven't got far to go. They keep a small beachfront villa in Havana – Aiden and Lucas's official residence. Handy for festival season and the occasional turn at entertaining. Their real home, nestled far from here in the hills above Cienfuegos, is for themselves alone. 

Back at the car, as Hannibal clips on his seatbelt, ominously silent, Will reaches for his hand and presses it gently.

'I really am sorry.'

Face impassive, Hannibal stares straight ahead. 'I'm sure.'

'Well, you don't have to be a dick about it.' Jerking his hand away.

' _Will_.' 

The sharp reprimand makes him flush, ripples of tension pulling at his skin like sharp hooks. 

Only one way to relieve it that he can think of right now.

'Shit. Slide your seat back.'

'Why?'

The almost-sulky note in Hannibal's voice makes Will want to smile. 

'Just do it, _Ha_ nnibal.' Drawing out the syllables of his name just a fraction, enough to prompt the shade of pink that Will loves to see bloom on Hannibal's cheekbones.

And as Hannibal operates the electronic seat controls of the Maybach, the beloved car he had shipped over from Buenos Aires (number plate changed in Hannibal's sole concession to precaution), Will covertly unzips the fly of his dress pants and thumbs the button free. Knows the moment Hannibal notices from his quick inhale. 

'Will –'

Before Hannibal has time to say more than his name in protest, Will has twisted in his seat and slid defiantly into Hannibal's lap. Kneeling up, thighs astride Hannibal's, he silently blesses the unknown designer who decreed that Mercedes Maybach seats should be as wide and butter-soft as is practically possible within the limited confines of a car. 

'Hannibal?'

'Yes?'

Leaning forward until they're nose to nose, he grins mischievously.

'Shut up.'

The first kiss is fierce, a distraction, demanding Hannibal's full attention. A reminder that they belong together. A reminder of _we_ , of _us_.

The second is gentle, lingering. A tender sharing. Of breath, of heat, of tongues curling together.

The third is a prelude. Thrusting, hotly invasive. Growing urgency echoed in mutual groans as hands start to wander and press and stroke.

Will grabs Hannibal's hand and brings it to his mouth, a kiss to the palm before he takes in three fingers and sucks. Their eyes never part, not when Will grabs a tube of lubricant from the glove box before shucking his dress pants and boxers down to his knees; not when Hannibal reaches around and begins a slow, careful stretching; not when Will unbuckles Hannibal's pants and pulls out his swollen cock; not even when he lowers himself onto his husband and impales himself to the hilt with a satisfied hiss. But when Hannibal grasps Will's hips and begins fucking up into him, lips curled into a snarl, fingers bruising, Will's eyes half close and he drops his head onto Hannibal's shoulder, forehead pressing fiercely against taut muscle as his own hips buck and roll, chasing white hot pleasure _now now now_.

In the aftermath, in the warm glow of languid kisses and tender touches, the jackal lawyer and Benjamin Raspail are temporarily forgotten. But hours later, when dawn breaks pale and cold, Will lies awake in bed with brow furrowed, the disquiet that has been plaguing him back again. Will from _Before_. _His_ torment. _His_ morality. Their shadows ever more distinct, ever more looming. And he exhales harshly as once-soft jabs sharpen, threatening to split and tear and spill – a bloody baptism of justice at the cost of fragile transformation.


	4. Of Obfuscation and Waiting

'Hannibal?'

'Hm?'

'When was the last time you saw Benjamin Raspail?'

No discernible reaction to the prodding that is clearly unwelcome, but Hannibal does set his teacup back onto its saucer with a little more force than usual.

'So we're back to that.'

Will swings his legs off the couch and stands, back cracking as he stretches with a sigh. Happy to be home again, though their Havana trip still lingers like a bad taste.

'We never actually started _that._ If you recall, the conversation got... derailed.'

'Ah yes.' 

The shadow of a smirk on Hannibal's face has Will narrowing his eyes. 'I'm beginning to think you engineered that little interlude.'

'Indeed?' Blinking innocently up at Will, Hannibal protests mildly, ‘Yet I was not the one unzipping my pants in the underground parking lot.'

That does it. Now he _knows_ he's been played.

'No, you shit. But you knew exactly which buttons to push to make sure that _I_ was.' A rueful grin. 'Damn. Why does that just make me want to take you apart again right now?'

'I'm always open to offers.'

***

Will doesn't reintroduce the subject until hours later, walking barefoot on the beach watching Ceph chase waves and gulls.

And when he does, he keeps it simple. Soft. Undemanding.

'Raspail?'

Momentary silence but no annoyance this time. A glance sideways at Hannibal tells the story: head cocked just so, mouth pursed in thought, gears clicking. But Hannibal has perfect recall so it's not a search for memories. What then?

_He wants to get this right. He's afraid of how I might react._

How surprising after all this time. 

Will slips his hand into his husband's and squeezes. 'I love you. I'm not going anywhere. _Ever._ Just tell me.'

They find a driftwood log beneath a drooping palm and settle side by side. It's early June and soon the rainy season will kick in – days like this are to be treasured. Ceph occupies herself foraging for random objects to lay at her masters' feet – a stick, the left arm of a child's doll, the forlorn remains of a washed up lobster pot. Their brindle pup is now sixteen months old and as precocious as an eighteen year old in human terms. Watching her fondly, hand still clasping Hannibal's, Will waits.

'He was a flautist in the Baltimore Philharmonic.'

'Was?' Still watching Ceph, still gentle.

'The last time I spoke to him was at my office, nine months before you and I first met.' A pause as Hannibal picks up the stick Ceph has laid in his lap and throws it out towards the water. 'I had been treating him for bipolar disorder.'

'Hm. When you say 'treating', would that be the same sort of unorthodox therapy you used on Randall Tier?' Just the slightest pause. 'Or me?' 

Hannibal's fingers tighten around Will's. 'Do not classify yourself with anyone else, Will.'

'Okay.' He draws a breath. Chases away the shadows of their darkest time and focuses on now, on Hannibal's grounding touch, on the love that he no longer questions. It helps. 'So what happened with Raspail? Did you refer him to the good Doctor Du Maurier?'

A slight smile. 'No, he simply failed to turn up for his next appointment. The evening after we were supposed to meet, I attended a concert at the Philharmonic. Mercifully, he was also absent from that.'

'Let me guess. His playing?'

'Atrocious.'

'And you didn't question it?'

Hannibal's shrug is carefully casual. 'I'm certain that I would not have bothered, had the need arisen, but as it happened I was informed that Benjamin had moved south to Richmond.'

'Informed by whom?'

'Another patient, who had begun therapy with me on Benjamin's recommendation.'

Will clicks his tongue. Hannibal is feeling his way through this conversation, weighing every word. It's horribly familiar. 

Half-truths and obfuscations stretching sticky between them. The glimmering threads of Hannibal's intellect catching like burrs, irresistible and impossible to shed.

_A charmed web he weaves._

'You're not telling me everything.'

'No.' Then, more gently, 'Not yet.'

There's nothing more to say. Impatience would be futile so Will swallows it down. Digs his toes into the sand. Powder white, beautifully cool in the shade. But Ceph's flopped, panting, by the palm and Will knows she's had enough. 

'It's getting too hot out here and Ceph needs a drink. Come on.'

Tries to stand and finds himself tugged back down. 

'Hannibal –'

Threading their fingers together, Hannibal leans in and draws his nose softly alongside Will's. 

'Don't be angry.'

'I'm not.'

Feels Hannibal's smile against his skin. 'Of course you are. But I would ask you to trust me.'

Trust. Always a fragile thing between them. Broken and rebuilt again and again, shattered pieces bonded by love's tenacity.

Instead of replying, Will seeks Hannibal's mouth with his own. A soft pressure before Hannibal opens to him, inviting entry. 

Sometimes Will marvels that he didn't see the inevitability of this years ago. Despite the betrayals and punishments that are forever engraved on his skin – and on Hannibal's – no two minds could have been more closely entwined. It had always been there, of course, on the periphery of every glance and every conversation. A shivery awareness of... something. Something he had not been prepared to name – did not know _how_ to name. Until one blood-drenched evening when he had staggered into Hannibal's darkness, only to discover that instead of extinguishing his light, it had set it to burn twice as brightly.

And this – _this_ he glories in. The physical exploration of each other as satisfying as the cerebral.

'God, I love your mouth,' he murmurs between long, languid kisses. 'I always have.'

'Always, hm?' 

Nimble fingers find the gap between t-shirt and shorts, tracing up and down Will’s spine, feather-light. 

'Mm. For one reason or another.'

Runs his tongue along the points of Hannibal's teeth and delves in again, sucking on his tongue with greedy relish. Hannibal kisses back, lips hot and firm as they move against Will's. Always they challenge, always they duel; the push-pull between them will not end in this life. Will would have it no other way.

They kiss until lips are tender and swollen. They kiss until roving hands become urgent seekers of smooth skin, thin cotton clothing worn for protection against the unforgiving summer sun now an unacceptable annoyance. 

'Fuck.' Breaking off, Will rests his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder. 'This is worse than adolescence.'

Stroking a hand through Will's hair, Hannibal chuckles. It's the most beautiful sound because it's so rare. 'I confess I had thought myself beyond such indignities. But I find that I don't mind at all.'

Smiling, Will lifts his head and steals a final kiss before gently extricating himself and bending to pat Ceph, who looks up with hopeful eyes, tail thumping on the sand.

'Yes, that's right, girl. Time to go.'

They stroll slowly back up to the house to shower before dinner. Questions still click in the back of Will's mind but less insistently now. The answers will come when Hannibal is ready. 

Will just prays that he's ready to hear them.


	5. Of Solos and Duets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your delectation and delight, partway through this chapter you will find an amazing piece of artwork by [shoegazerx](http://shoegazerx.tumblr.com/). Enjoy! 
> 
> An extraordinary and very powerful illustration by [hanni-bunny-lecter](http://hanni-bunny-lecter.tumblr.com/) can be found at the end of the chapter. WARNING: it is extremely graphic! And hella beautiful! :D

Long, elegant fingers thread through his own, thumb and forefinger playing idly with the platinum band that is a reminder of promises made and vows exchanged. A comforting weight, warm and familiar. Gradually, however, they slip down to encircle his wrist, just loosely. And as, slowly, the pad of Hannibal's thumb begins to stroke across the soft, sensitive skin beneath, Will half-closes his eyes.

'What are you up to?'

'Nothing at all,' comes the laconic reply.

Will glances at his husband's profile. Innocence personified. 

'I'm sorry, Will. I didn't mean to distract you.' Hannibal releases him with a small sigh and begins flipping idly through his programme.

Will almost buys it. Almost. Until after scarcely a minute, Hannibal abandons the programme to once again seek contact... this time resting his palm lightly on Will's knee. And as those talented fingers begin to stray, tracing lightly up and down his thigh, Will permits a wry smile.

'Are you not enjoying this? It was your choice,' he reminds dryly, remembering a conversation from the previous week.

_'An opera on Dante?'_

_'And Beatrice. It's a relatively new work – I attended its US debut in Baltimore – but I thought the subject matter would amuse you.'_

_'I'm sure.' Dryly. 'What's it called?'_

_'Vide Cor Meum.'_

_Rolls his eyes. 'Indulging your taste for irony again, my love?'_

High above the hoi polloi, in a private box at the back of the auditorium (because 'until they replace that dreadful tenor, this is quite close enough'), Hannibal hums thoughtfully, slides his fingers back over Will's and lifts their joined hands to his lips.

'My appreciation of you does not preclude enjoyment of the opera, my dear Will.'

'Maybe not, but it makes it damned difficult for me to concentrate when you're playing me like one of your instruments.' But there's no bite to Will's words and Hannibal only chuckles softly.

'I was under the impression that you liked my playing.'

'You're bored,' Will pronounces. 'This is about killing time, not indulging passion.'

Hannibal pouts. 'Could we not do both?' As his fingertips brush Will's stirring cock through snug-fitting suit pants.

Mercifully, the tenor warbles his final few notes and the curtain falls for a brief interval. 

Will shoots his smirking companion a dark look. 'I'm going to freshen up.'

'Then your drink and I will be waiting at the bar.'

Will barrels into the restroom and stomps into the nearest stall. A couple of minutes to cool off, that's all he needs. Comes out still on the edge of arousal, leans over the nearest sink and eyes his flushed reflection balefully. He's so busy plotting his second act revenge that at first he barely notices the man methodically drying his hands with a wad of paper towels at the other end of the room.

Until that same man calls out cheerily, 'Hello there! Aiden, isn't it?'

_Well, if it isn't Hyena Sam._

Nerves snap tight as he twists the faucet and busies himself washing his hands. There's something about the man now sauntering towards him... something strangely familiar. Will can't shake the feeling that he's seen him before. Before Cuba. Before Argentina. _Before._ It's unnerving but he allows none of what he's feeling to show in his face.

'You've got a good memory. Had any luck locating your friend?' 

Sam sighs with just the right amount of regret and tosses the balled-up paper into the trash. 'Unfortunately not. Not yet, anyway. I'm having trouble getting my message out. I guess it's all about networking the in-crowd, huh? If, that is, one can get an introduction.'

Not the most subtle of hints but Will ignores it. Turns off the water and goes to dry his hands. 

'You're sure he hasn't just moved on? Extended his vacation? The mountain regions are pretty remote. If he's gone exploring with only a smartphone, chances are he'd have no way of contacting anyone until he got back. Signal's bad enough in the city.'

'Hm. Maybe if it had only been an extra week or so, but months?' Sam shakes his head. 'He's not the type.'

They leave the restroom together, more by accident than design. At least on Will's part. But as he's about to leave Sam in the foyer, he finds silken words issuing from his mouth.

'We're having a small dinner party next Friday for a few of the US InterNations brigade. Why don't you come? It'll give you a chance to do a bit of that networking you were talking about.'

Sam's eyes positively sparkle. 'That would be great. What time?'

'Seven. I'll text you the address.'

He shakes Sam's hand because he wants to confirm... Yeah, he's sweating alright. Excitement or fear? 

_Guess we'll find out next week. Oh, Sam, Sam. Let's hope for your sake it's the former._

'Everything alright?' Hannibal murmurs as Will slips into their box and takes the proffered flute of champagne. 

'Yeah, sorry.' He waits until the curtain's rising to add, 'By the way, we've got one more for dinner next week.'

Forty minutes into the second half, Will drops his programme. Makes sure it lands with a satisfying plop right at Hannibal's feet. He knows that when he goes to his knees, he won't be visible to the other patrons from behind the solid gilt balustrade. He also knows that Hannibal will. Above the waist, anyway. 

To give Hannibal his due, he maintains his composure as Will slides to the floor. Reacts with barely a raised eyebrow when his belt is unbuckled and zipper tugged down by efficient hands. Allows only a whisper of a sigh to escape at the first touch of Will's fingers.

But when Will's lips hover above the swelling head, leaking already in anticipation of the hot, tight suction to come, Hannibal's hands ball into fists at his sides and his thigh muscles clench where Will is pressed in between them. 

In a quick tease, Will blows gently just to watch Hannibal's cock twitch and hear his breath hitch. Flicks out his tongue and laves at the slit now oozing slick, milky beads. Hannibal's hips lift almost imperceptibly and Will directs a wicked smile upwards. 

'Let's get these pants off. I would hate to ruin them.'

Almost before Hannibal has time to react, Will's pulling both pants and boxers down around Hannibal's ankles.

'Mm. Much better,' he whispers, peppering tender kisses against bared side, hip, thigh. Inhales the scent of soap and arousal. Noses his way back to that delicious cock, so very hard for him now. One hand strokes the beautifully soft skin of Hannibal's abdomen; the other grasps his cock and guides it to his mouth.

He stops just short of taking it in. Flicks his eyes back up to Hannibal, who is staring at the stage with grim determination.

'What do you want? What shall I do?' Dips his tongue into the warm slit, lapping gently. Again. Again. Another shift of hips and the barest of moans. 

'Mm. You like that. But is it enough? Do you want more?' Soft murmurs in a voice now slightly uneven as Will's own arousal swells. 'Do you want my mouth, Hannibal?' A light kiss to the weeping tip. 'Do you?' He pauses, looks up through his lashes and delivers the coup de grace. 'Or should I stop distracting you from this apparently riveting performance?'

Hannibal finally relinquishes all pretence, eyes dark with rampant desire blazing down at Will, hand shooting out to grip his nape, holding him in place. 

'Do. Not. Move.'

The low growl sparks an answering throb of heat in Will's belly and he shifts a little as his pants grow uncomfortably tight. But he ignores his own need. Refocuses on the glorious cock millimetres from his mouth. Licks his lips until they're slick.

'Not even to do this?'

Bowing, he curls his tongue around the head and sucks. The music crescendos and dies, rapturous applause echoing around the auditorium. Will takes full advantage, humming deep in his throat as he works up and down in greedy worship.

Nails score across the back of his neck – savagely tender retaliation that Will welcomes with a moan. Hannibal's other hand buries itself in his hair, kneading in time with Will's rhythm. He's so close – Will can feel it in the clenching of Hannibal's abdominal muscles beneath his palm, in the pulsing rigidity of his cock. 

He pulls off, breathless, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at his husband, whose eyes are almost black with need as he looks back, flushed and shuddering. On the precipice.

'God, you're stunning,' Will murmurs. His thumb teases the dripping slit. 'Come for me, Hannibal. Let me drink you down.' 

A soprano takes centre stage, filling the empty space with notes of exquisite melancholy, and Will closes his eyes. Feels gentle hands cup his face and guide him back. His jaw works to swallow Hannibal's seed, which spills in juddering, salty bursts across his tongue. Will's own erection presses fierce against his zipper, and breathing hard he pulls off. Rests his cheek against Hannibal's thigh, emotion swelling unexpectedly as the aria soars, sweet and pure.

The dulcet tones of a tenor bleed into the air, plaintive solo evolving to passionate duet. And although Will cannot understand the words, he knows their meaning. Knows what it is to love to distraction that which kisses and kills with equal pleasure. Knows the terrible responsibility of owning so completely the burning heart of another. Knows the terrible joy of seeing and being seen, accepting and being accepted, for good and ill.

_I love his darkness as he loves my light._

_'Io sono in pace.'_

_'Vide cor meum.'_

'I am at peace. See my heart,' Hannibal translates gruffly, and Will lifts his head.

'I do,' he affirms huskily, surprised to discover that his face is wet with tears. 'I always have.'

Hannibal strokes Will's cheeks with murmured endearments. Lifts his hand and, eyes still locked to Will's, sucks the collected tears from his thumb.


	6. Of Anger and Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to send huge hugs to my dear friend [thisismydesignhannibal](http://thisismydesignhannibal.tumblr.com/) for helping me wrangle with characterisation issues this week. You were amazing, honey. Thank you!
> 
> And within the chapter, feast your eyes on yet more stunning art by [hanni-bunny-lecter](http://hanni-bunny-lecter.tumblr.com/)!

'Tell me again why you have invited Raspail’s lawyer friend.'

Will pauses mid-dice. Taps the flat of the knife against the cutting board as he contemplates his answer. 

'Curiosity.'

'About Raspail?'

'About the lawyer.'

'What rouses your interest specifically?' 

Hannibal squeezes half a lime into his barracuda marinade and adds a sprinkling of fresh herbs. Will resumes his pepper dicing.

'Specifically? How about the fact that he has singled us out twice now at social gatherings yet we still don't know his last name?'

'He gave you his business card.'

'Which has only a cell number on it. And that's another thing. Out of all the people at the exhibition, why ask for _our_ help?'

Hannibal purses his lips. 'Asking the ex-FBI investigator to investigate? It could be coincidence.'

'It could be. It could also be coincidence that he's from Virginia and that you both knew Benjamin Raspail. I don't buy it.' Will lays down his knife and directs a hard stare at Hannibal from across the kitchen island. 'And I don’t think you buy it either. I keep thinking that I know him from somewhere. You wouldn't by any chance be having those same feelings, would you?'

Hannibal's silence is answer enough. 

'Shit, Hannibal, that's _it_. After the party, you're going to tell me everything you know.'

'Is that an ultimatum, Will?'

Hurt by Hannibal's cold tone and apparent intransigence, Will drops the knife with a clatter and stalks from the room. 

'Will –'

'Go to hell.'

Whistles for Ceph, throws open the patio door and slams it shut behind them.

***

Brittle silence greets Will upon his return, an hour or so later. Passing the kitchen, he glances in and sees Hannibal still at work preparing the meal. Alone. Mouth set in a thin line. Will lingers in the doorway, debating whether to go in and make peace. Hannibal knows he's there – even if Will had tiptoed back in, Hannibal would know. They've always been able to sense each other's presence. That's just the way it is. But Hannibal refuses to acknowledge him and, anger reigniting, Will continues past.

He settles Ceph in her kennel then goes straight upstairs. Shower, shave, change. Black trousers and crisp olive button down – dark colours to match his mood.

They're expecting five guests, including Hyena Sam. A modest gathering and no challenge for someone of Hannibal's gastronomic calibre. Still, as Will returns downstairs to prowl the dining room, he eyes the beautifully set table with regret, running his fingers over pristine damask cloth. 

_We should have done this together._

Hears the doorbell's distinctive tones: _cling clang clong_. Before Will can decide whether to answer, Hannibal's footsteps echo on the tile and shortly thereafter there's a flurry of cheerful greetings. 

_And action._

'Kate, James, you're right on time.' Strides out into the hall, fixed smile encompassing the university professor and her architect husband while bypassing Hannibal altogether. 'Come on in and I'll fix you a drink.'

Half an hour later, they're all assembled. Pieces on a chessboard. Hannibal and Will with the length of the table between them, speaking to anyone but each other, focused on no one _but_ each other; brown-eyed Kate enjoying the attentions of Hyena Sam; genial James conversing happily with interior designer Penny, while husband Sean fields a call from work in the living room.

'No, I'm sorry.' Kate sips delicately from her spoon, eyeing Sam sympathetically. 'We haven't met anyone who fits your friend's description.'

None of them have. Will considers this as he stirs his gazpacho and laughs at something – he's no idea what – James has just said. These couples are at the hub of the small US expat community. For them to have heard not even a whisper of Raspail is odd.

Sam, perspiring in an ill-fitting Armani knock-off, downs his second glass of Pinot Grigio and waves away Kate's apology. 'A friend of his is coming out to help me search. He thinks Ben probably headed into the mountains. Poor guy could be lost up there with no cell service.'

_Well, what do you know? Isn't that exactly what I said last week..._

'Have you notified the authorities?' Will asks, eyes on his soup. 

'Of course. First thing I did when I arrived and ascertained that Ben wasn't at the house. But let's face it, the Cuban police aren't the most diligent when it comes to dealing with US-related legal issues.'

Will looks up sharply and his gaze catches Hannibal's. 'In what way is this an issue of legality, Sam?'

Sam giggles... _nervously? Definitely nervously._ 'I meant missing person issues.'

'Of course you did.'

Raises his eyebrows in silent question, at which Hannibal looks back at him with reluctant fondness, in an 'alright, I give in, but please don't play with your food' kind of way.

Sean returns just in time for the barracuda, which Hannibal serves with plantains, salad and a liberal sprinkling of charm.

'Pacific barracuda, soaked in a lime marinade then fried in a heavy skillet. A popular Caribbean dish, yet one must be careful not to overindulge.'

'Too many calories?' Kate asks, hands smoothing over her trim middle.

'Too much mercury,' replies Hannibal. 'Hence the relatively small portions I have given you. One cannot be too careful.'

Sam, now on his third glass, sniggers into his drink.

'You okay there, champ? You're not choking, are 'ya?' teases James, cutting into his steaming fish with relish.

 _Not yet,_ thinks Will darkly. _But don't go placing any bets._

***

Guests dispatched to the night, Will stalks up behind Hannibal, snaking his arms around his waist as he stands at the door. Tucks his chin over Hannibal's shoulder and presses close. 

_My captive._

'Does this mean you're speaking to me again?' enquires Hannibal softly, turning his head to rub his cheek against Will's.

'It means I'm going to sit with my feet in your lap and drink a couple fingers of whiskey while I listen to _you_ speaking to _me_.' Capturing Hannibal's lower lip between his teeth, Will nips before releasing him. 'Right?'

***

'The lawyer would make a poor poker player.'

'Meaning?'

Heavy-bottomed cut glass tumbler in hand, feet planted as promised in Hannibal's lap, Will leans his head back against the armrest of the sofa and looks sternly at his smirking husband.

'Need I elaborate?'

Drawing up one bare foot, Will curls his toes and rubs gently across Hannibal's soft cock, which immediately begins to harden.

_So few weaknesses, my love, but I have the key to all of them. Now talk._

'That is entirely up to you.' _Rub._ 'But if you don't –' _Rub._ 'Then this –' _Rub._ ‘Is all you’ll be getting from me for quite some time.’

Both hot-cheeked, both breathing a little unsteadily. When Will starts to press down again, Hannibal grasps his ankle to still him - lifts and shifts Will's feet to rest across his thighs, securing them with a firm hand.

'Enough, cruel boy.'

Will flashes a grin. Shark-like. 'Ready to talk now?'

Hannibal heaves a sigh. 'So it seems.' Taps his fingers against his own glass, considering.

_Measuring your words again, Hannibal?_

'For one thing, I doubt that his name is Sam.'

Will snorts. 'Of course his name isn't Sam.'

'And I strongly suspect that he knows who we are.'

'So he wangles an invitation to dinner?' Raises a brow in disbelief. 'He'd have to be either incredibly stupid or incredibly arrogant.'

Hannibal takes a sip. 'He's a lawyer, Will.'

'Right. Both then.' A pause. 'So you _do_ believe that he's a lawyer?'

'He deals comfortably in half-truths and he smells of ink and disillusionment. Yes, that part I believe.'

Anger tightens Will's chest. 'He's dangling Raspail, hoping we'll bite.'

'Of course.'

A sick feeling rises. 'Hannibal, _why_ does he think we'll bite?'

Hannibal looks back at him unblinkingly. 'I imagine he believes me to be responsible for Raspail's disappearance.'

'And are you?'

_Damn you, Hannibal. Tell me._

The only sound to crack the brittle silence is the clinking of ice in Hannibal's glass as he tips it back and drains the contents. Will knows the answer before he hears it.

'Yes.'


	7. Of Stubbornness and Disclosures

Ceph collapses on the kitchen floor, tongue lolling, salt-and-sand encrusted coat smudging the gleaming tile. Hannibal, chopping herbs on an olive wood board at the island, clicks his tongue in annoyance. Will ignores him. Crosses to the sink to wash his hands.

'Don't make me regret keeping her.' Hannibal's tone is clipped.

'Don't make _me_ regret keeping _you_ ,' Will snaps back. 

A pause. The chopping intensifies.

This was inevitable. A noxious silence has existed between them for – what? Three days, going on four. Each one taut with emotion and words too long suppressed. 

_You should have told me trusted me you promised you promised._

The thoughts tumble around in his head in a ceaseless litany that he cannot excise. That has kept him from asking any more questions. That has kept him at a distance, physically and emotionally. That grows louder with every passing moment until he wants to drown it out with screaming. 

He wants to scream now. Instead, he sits down to another civilised meal with his civilised, seething husband ( _that makes two of us, Hannibal_ ). Not so hard, really. Focus on the food, pretend the silence is comfortable, paper over the tension with occasional comments on local politics or Ceph's need for a bath. 

'I want you back in our bed.'

Will nearly chokes on a mouthful of paella. His eyes flash to Hannibal's face for the first time in days. He looks tired, lines accentuated. Will's gut clenches in sympathy and he hates himself for his weakness. Quickly looks away again, grabbing his water glass. 

' _I_ want _you_ to stop _lying_ to me,' he manages after a few hefty swallows. 'I guess we'll both have to learn to live with disappointment.'

He's not sure what alarms him more. The clatter of silver on china as Hannibal rises from his chair or the ice in Hannibal's tone as he enunciates slowly, 'I. Did. Not. Lie.'

Alone, Will stares at the steaming plates of food, prepared fresh with a loving hand. Rejected now. Left to spoil. Despite the heat, he shivers.

***

Will trails behind Hannibal, glaring through dark shades at the stiff back he's been presented with since their arrival in the vibrant city of Santiago de Cuba. An impromptu trip suggested by the expat group, to catch the last couple of days of the Festival del Fuego; a distraction seized on by both of them. They're at an impasse and Will has rarely been so angry with his stubborn husband.

_If only he didn't look so fucking beautiful._

Hair pushed back, silver-streaked; silver stubble on his jaw. White linen shirt, worn loose over beige pants, accentuating his golden tan. Hannibal has rolled up the sleeves to reveal tanned, slender forearms, scars faded now. As he strolls with the loping grace of a golden panther, sunlight glints off his wedding ring. Will's throat tightens at the sight, thumb tracing the edges of his matching band.

Santiago de Cuba is abuzz with festival fever – a garish explosion of loud music and louder colours – and it takes them a while to negotiate the narrow, crowded sidewalks. They don't speak until they're through the doors of the Casa Granda, and Will removes his sunglasses to scan the colonial grandeur of the bustling lobby. 

'I can't see them.'

His gaze shifts to Hannibal who shrugs, expression remote.

'They're probably in the terrace bar. It affords excellent views of the park.'

The prospect of hobnobbing with expats for two days straight would, under normal circumstances, fill Will with dread. But it's got to be better than this hellish limbo so he heads for the stairs with something almost approaching eagerness.

They're evidently the last to arrive – Kate sees them first and waves them over to a long table by the balcony, overlooking the Parque Cespedes. Massive ceiling fans whir frantically in a bid to dilute the treacly air as waiting staff scurry around replenishing water jugs.

'We started the party without you.' 

The smirk on Sam's face is mildly irritating, but Will's more interested in the man sitting hunched between him and James. Lanky, blonde, pinched.

It takes a couple of pointed looks before Sam says oh-so-casually, 'This is the friend of Ben's I was telling you about.'

'And does Ben's friend have a name?' Will offers the newcomer a tight smile which is barely returned.

'Yes, Ben’s friend has a name. It’s Gumb. Jame Gumb.' The man’s voice is pitched low, a lazy drawl that’s strangely repulsive. 

_Black flies buzzing around a stagnant pool._

'I’m Aiden,' Will returns, unease tightening his skin. 'And this is my husband, Lucas.' 

Gumb's eyes, pale and narrowed, flick straight to Hannibal. ‘Hello… Lucas.’

Will can feel Hannibal practically vibrating at his side but he merely smiles. ‘Hello, Jame.'

Gumb and Sam exchange a look that is almost triumphant. Hannibal's smile turns feral. 

_What the fuck is happening?_

Will bags a couple of empty seats and tugs Hannibal down next to him.

'I'm so glad we haven't missed the burning of El Diablo!' Kate exclaims, cutting through the tension as she looks up from her phone. 'It's tonight in the park – we'll be able to see it from right here. Thank the lord for Wi-Fi hot spots!'

This sparks a lively debate about the 21st century dependence on technology, which Hannibal joins in with every appearance of light-hearted engagement. But Will is only half listening. The buzzing continues, an oppressive sensation of malevolence which intensifies every time Gumb opens his mouth to speak. 

_Poison instead of breath. Maggots instead of words._

Will starts when Sam leans across the table and says genially, 'Be a pal and come help me get the next round in, will you?'

It’s a clumsy ruse to get him alone, but Will's on his feet before the first person's given their order. Hannibal places a restraining hand on his arm. Will shakes it off. 

He strides to the bar without looking back. It's crowded, but he finds a space at one end and shifts as Sam slides in beside him.

'I need your help – Mr Graham.'

_Cards on the table or a double bluff?_

Will shakes his head. 'You've got some guts, I'll give you that. How long have you known?'

'Since I spotted you in the gallery.' Sam offers a tentative smile that’s at odds with the lingering smugness in his eyes. 

_He’s still playacting._

'The weird thing is, it was sheer coincidence.' He lowers his voice. Confidential. Cosy. 'It’s Gumb we're after. I was beginning to think he would never show.'

Will’s jaw clenches. 'Who's we?'

'Huh?'

'You said _we._ Who's _we_ , Sam?'

Before Will’s eyes, the son-of-a-bitch swells with importance. 'That would be the DoJ. My name’s not Sam, Mr Graham. It’s Krendler.'

‘Jesus.’

_Paul Krendler. Deputy Assistant Attorney General._

No wonder he’d seemed familiar. A picture on a wall passed by once or twice and a name occasionally taken in vain by Jack.

Will's heart thumps violently but he stays focused. 'You're a little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you, Mr Krendler? Not to say operating way below your pay grade. What is this?’

Krendler frowns. 'Ben Raspail _was_ a friend of mine. I think he’s dead. And I think Gumb’s involved.’ He flicks a glance back to their table. ‘I've been trying to pin this bastard down for weeks, and if I can get him to come back to the States with me he'll be detained the second we land.'

There's a pause as their order is taken. 

'And what about us?' A stray ice cube melts slowly on the smooth surface of the bar. Will traces his finger through the gathering water, and just for a moment the outline of a knife gleams wetly before evaporating.

Krendler shrugs, eyes intent on the tray rapidly filling with colourful drinks. 'Hey, I've learned over the years to pick my battles. Right now you're Crawford's headache. _This_ is personal to _me_ , understand?'

Will nods slowly. No-man's-land. Neutral territory. A strange detente that he will accept – for now. 

'And maybe,' Krendler adds, 'you'd consider helping me out. One last field job?'

The jolt of guilt that slices through Will is as unexpected as it is unnerving. He doesn't reply but his hands clench into fists.

Back at the table, drinks distributed, Will takes a page from Hannibal’s book, forcing himself to sink into detached enjoyment. Shares a joke and a beer with Penny while surreptitiously watching the others. Hannibal's in full-on charm mode, fielding flirtatious requests for another dinner party; Gumb sips cautiously from a water glass, curiously blank eyes darting from one person to another as if observing insects in their natural habitat; and Krendler looks... relaxed. 

_Maybe too relaxed._

Relieved, perhaps? But he's in the presence of at least one killer, possibly two. And he has no way of knowing Will's current status. Despite his apparent unburdening and eagerness to buddy up, there's something about Paul Krendler that doesn't ring true.

The imminent arrival of the El Diablo procession draws tourists in a steady stream until the bar is filled to capacity. Will stays close to Hannibal, despite their current Cold War. He's not about to drop his guard around Krendler and Gumb, and the sooner he can get Hannibal alone, the better. 

Within an hour, excited chatter and the frantic pulse of a salsa clog the air; with little room to move, Will’s retreated to the balcony. Head resting against a supporting post, he sighs as a soothing hand smooths down his back.

'Had enough?'

Hannibal's voice, quiet and low, cuts through the stifling atmosphere. Head turning, Will meets his somber gaze for the first time since they sat down. 

'Don't you want to see the burning effigy?' 

'The devil, roasted before a baying crowd? Now why would I wish to experience that?' 

A teasing note, and a trickle of warmth filters through the ice encasing Will's heart. 

'In that case...' 

The hand on his back travels up to cup the nape of his neck, fingers stroking. 

'Say no more.'

'Aiden? Are you okay?' Kate, gentle and concerned.

'Aiden is not overly fond of crowds. Nor, I confess, am I. If you will excuse us?'

'Of course.' Will stiffens at the sound of Krendler's voice. 'I'd call it a night as well if my room wasn't right above all of this. Where have they put you guys? Somewhere quieter, I hope.'

Straightening up, Will pushes away from the balcony and reaches for Hannibal's hand. Squeezes a warning. Unnecessary, as it turns out.

'We're not staying here.'

_We're not?_

Will's surprise is as great as Krendler's, though he hides it much more successfully. 

'You didn't manage to book a room here?' Krendler sounds almost outraged. 

'I never tried.'

'Why not?'

_Why so flustered?_

Hannibal looks at him coolly. 'Because I have stayed here before.'

Suppressing a smile, Will tugs his disdainful husband away. 'We'll catch up with you all tomorrow.'

'Lunch at St Pauli,' Sean reminds them with a wave.

Will's final impression is of a disgruntled Krendler… and Gumb.

_Skin stretched waxy and cold in a manic grin._

Will wends his way downstairs with Hannibal, clasping his hand tightly, the silence between them no longer strained but filled with urgency. The night throbs with energy, shrill cicadas providing a relentless accompaniment to the brash bass beat of mingled sounds spilling from shadowy doorways. During the short walk to their hotel, Will attempts to speak only once. Gets as far as uttering Hannibal's name before he's cut off. 

'Wait.'

So he waits. The crowds thin as they swap colonial grandeur for 1950s chic; busy thoroughfares for quiet avenues. Finally, Hannibal leads him through a set of wrought iron gates and up a short flight of stone steps to a villa with green shutters and a cream facade. 

Check-in is brisk and efficient. Yes, their bags have arrived from the airport. And their room, with a balcony overlooking the rear courtyard, is ready. A smart young man in a beige uniform escorts them through a series of connecting rooms dotted with ferns, walls painted pale green. Cool. Tranquil.

Their room is dominated by a huge bed covered with a green and cream striped quilt. Will stands contemplating it while Hannibal tips the bellboy. The door clicks shut and he huffs a sigh, scrubbing his face with his hands.

'So _now_ can we talk?'

Arms encircle him from behind and he stiffens slightly before relaxing against the strong body pressed in a line against his. Brings his hands up to caress Hannibal's forearms, smooth skin and soft hair beneath his fingertips. Insistent lips seek out the curve of his neck above the open shirt collar and he allows his head to tip sideways against Hannibal's shoulder. 

'I guess not, huh?'

A rumble of displeasure from Hannibal. 'Four days, Will. Four days you have kept me at a distance.'

One hand is busy unbuttoning his shirt; questing fingers slip inside to seek and stroke. Will closes his eyes. Surrounded by Hannibal's heat and ocean-fresh scent and obvious arousal, all he wants to do is give in and lose himself in sweet pleasure. But…

'We still haven't sorted anything out.'

The lips at his nape pause. Hannibal's breath puffs against his skin as he speaks. 'I did not lie to you, Will. Obfuscate, certainly. But not lie.' He pauses. 'Do you believe me?'

Will thinks of Paul Krendler's earnest confessions and oh-so-open expressions. He thinks of Gumb, scowling and smirking by turns. _Toxic._ And he thinks of Hannibal's icy outrage and abandoned meal. 

'Yes,' he sighs, turning in Hannibal's arms to cup his husband's face. Meets his guarded gaze with serious eyes. 'Yes, Hannibal, I believe you.'

He presses his mouth to Hannibal's, a vow more than a kiss. Lingers for a moment before pulling back. Hannibal looks at him, considering. Slowly his arms tighten around Will’s waist. 

'Show me.'


	8. Of Revelations and Charades

Lips and hands cling. Fierce kisses gentle into soft exchanges. Laid out on the bed, an offering, Hannibal bares sharp teeth in a grin as Will straddles him. 

_God, I love this body._

He pushes Hannibal's shirt from his shoulders and dips to suck at dusky nipples already swollen. Rakes his teeth against one tender peak and hums in satisfaction at the resultant gasp. Rearing up, he claims Hannibal's mouth in a wet kiss, tongue pushing inside hungrily. 

Hips canting forward, Will pushes his erection against Hannibal's. Grinds in a steady rhythm, lips curved in satisfaction as Hannibal groans and shifts restlessly beneath him.

'Do you want something?' 

'I want you naked,' Hannibal growls, hands roaming possessively over Will's still-clothed ass. 'I want to be naked against you. _Inside_ you.'

A thrill of arousal almost shakes Will's resolve. Almost.

'I want that too.' A slow, deep kiss. Another. 'So tell me.'

Hannibal's eyes glitter amber fire. 'Tell you what?' He chases Will's lips and Will allows himself to be caught, moaning into Hannibal's mouth as their hips rub together.

'You _know_ what,' he gasps. Pulls back slightly, fighting a fog of desire. This is too important. He fixes Hannibal with a serious stare. 'I believe that you didn't lie, but I need to know what happened. What you know about Raspail's disappearance. The part you played.'

Frustration wars with understanding in Hannibal's expression. 'You know something – or you think you do – and you want to work out where I fit into the puzzle.'

Will's eyes narrow. 'What do you mean, _'you think you do'_?'

‘Will, there is much you do _not_ know.' 

A spike of anger prompts Will to attempt retreat, but a hand comes up to cup his cheek, tracing softly over the long, faded scar, holding him in place. 'I promise that before this night is over you _shall_ know it all.'

‘Hannibal.’ Will holds his gaze. ‘Enough. Tell me. Now.’

Hannibal sighs. 'Very well. Now.'

'You didn't kill Raspail.'

'No. And thank you for not posing that as a question.' Hannibal presses a kiss into Will's hair.

'But you were responsible for his disappearance?'

'Mm.'

Will rolls his eyes. 'It's going to take all night at this rate. Let's move it along, shall we? There are things I need to tell you too.'

A suspiciously laughter-like rumble shakes Hannibal's chest. 'Impatient boy,' he chides. 'Still, it is past time that we concluded this wearisome business. I have said that I did not kill Benjamin, but what I did not tell you was that it was I who found Benjamin's body, in a church pew, after receiving an anonymous call. He was sitting dressed in a funeral suit and his head was cradled in his lap.'

'O – kay.' It's not the most gruesome tale Will's ever heard but it's grim enough to warrant a grimace of distaste. 'Clearly you didn't call the police.'

'No.' Flatly. 'The possibility that this was an attempt to frame me was too great to ignore. I simply tucked Benjamin away, very much as I had found him.'

Will directs a piercing stare at his husband. 'Do you know who was responsible for his death?'

'I have my suspicions.'

'So do I.' Will props himself up on one elbow, smiling faintly. 'Wouldn't it be funny if we were both thinking of the same person.'

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. 'It appears your talk with the lawyer was illuminating.'

Will huffs a laugh. 'Oh, then we're definitely on the same page.'

To his surprise, Hannibal hesitates. 'In some respects, yes.'

'Only some?' He tenses.

_'You know something - or you think you do...'_

A soothing hand strokes down his arm. 'It was undoubtedly Gumb. Benjamin had told me he believed that Gumb was obsessed with him, and when the boy began an intimate relationship with another man, Gumb reacted... badly.'

'How badly?'

'Klaus, Benjamin's lover, disappeared shortly afterwards. It was beyond the boy's comprehension that his friend could be a murderer, but he was disturbed enough to recommend Gumb for therapy.'

Something scratches at Will's memory and he frowns. 'Hang on.'

It's so familiar. Why? He thinks back to their conversation on the beach.

_'I was informed that Benjamin had moved south to Richmond.'_

_'Informed by whom?'_

_'Another patient, who had begun therapy with me on Benjamin's recommendation.'_

'You said that the last time you spoke to Raspail was nine months before you met me.' His speech is measured, eyes closing as the jigsaw pieces come together.

'Yes.'

'So – who told you that Raspail had moved to Richmond?'

'Jame Gumb.'

'Years ago. That was _years_ ago, Hannibal.' Scrambling off the bed, Will rakes a shaking hand through his hair and stares at Hannibal. 'Are you telling me that Raspail has been dead for fucking _years_?'

Hannibal sits upright and looks back at him with perfect calm. 'Yes.' 

'So everything that Krendler's been feeding us, about seeing Raspail off at the airport two months ago, about suspecting Gumb of following him over here to murder him - that was all bullshit.’ 

Will paces as he slots the pieces into place. 'Obviously Gumb recognised you. Krendler was probably counting on it. Christ!' A bark of laughter, harsh. 'It's like some sick game of charades.'

‘Much of life is composed of masquerade, Will. We wear different masks for different people, layer upon layer. Rarely do we remove them completely.’

‘I thought that we had at least dropped our masks with each other.’

‘We have.’

‘Oh, really?’ Will stops and glares at Hannibal. 'Yet you haven’t asked me who Krendler is.’

Hannibal returns his stare coolly. ‘No.’ 

‘Because you know.’

'Obviously.'

‘How long?’ Heart racing, mouth dry, Will takes a step back towards the bed. ‘ _How long,_ Hannibal?’

‘From the beginning.’

‘ _Fuck._ ’

‘Sit down, Will.’

Tears prick the backs of Will’s eyes. He shakes his head, drawing a deep breath that hitches on a sob. ‘You absolute shit.’

‘I said _sit down._ ’

'Fuck,' Will says again, but he sits down heavily on the end of the bed.

Silence, then a long sigh. When Hannibal speaks again, his voice is painfully gentle. ‘My motives in the past have been admittedly less than pure, but you need to know that what I withheld from you on this occasion, I did only out of love. I wished to protect you, Will.’ 

‘Against what?’ He cannot help the harshness of his tone.

‘Krendler came to see me once, in the BSHCI. To ‘take a look at their newest exhibit’ as he crudely put it. In the short time that he spent with me, he was less than polite. He was considerably more polite when we bumped into each other two days before the art exhibition.’

Will’s listening intently but he can’t yet bring himself to look at Hannibal. ‘Tell me. _Everything,_ Hannibal.’

‘Naturally his first thought was that I would kill him. He soiled himself.‘ There’s an amused pause. ‘He was working undercover, he said. Black ops. One signal from him and a spotlight would shine on Cuba that was so bright, there would not be a hole deep enough for us to hide in. But if I spared his life, he would forget that he had found us.’

‘On condition that you kept his true identity a secret from me?’

‘He considered you - unpredictable.’

‘And you? What was _your_ reason for keeping me in the dark? Not fear of Krendler.’ Betrayal rises like bile.

‘No, Will. Not fear of him but of _you._ Of what you might do. If you had gone after Krendler, you might have ended up captured or worse.’

It’s a fair point, though displeasure still simmers.

‘But why the line about Raspail only recently disappearing?’ Will’s brow furrows and he half turns towards Hannibal. ‘Why bring up Raspail at all if he suspected you of killing him?’

‘I expect it amused him to feed you misinformation in front of me. Undoubtedly an attempt to reassert his power.’

‘And he’s using Gumb to throw you even more off balance. Unless…’ Now he does look at Hannibal, worry superseding his dying anger. ‘If he knows how dangerous Gumb is, this could be an off-the-books attempt to have you killed.'

'That has occurred to me.' 

Hannibal's dry humour cracks the fragile hold Will has on his composure and he begins to shake uncontrollably. Instantly Hannibal is at his side, enfolding him in a warm embrace, crooning into his ear. 

'He shall not touch us, Will. Not even when he returns to the States. He fears my reach. I can smell it on him.'

Will slides his arms around Hannibal's waist, holding him fiercely close. 'And if he plans to set his attack dog on us?’

'Then we will be ready.’

Hannibal strokes a thumb across Will's lips, a question in his eyes.

And Will finds himself nodding slowly. He wants, with sudden desperation, to reaffirm the bond which Krendler's meddling presence has put under strain for weeks.

So he parts his lips and sucks the tip of Hannibal's thumb inside while his hands get busy unbuckling first his own pants, then Hannibal's. 

They roll apart momentarily while every scrap of clothing is divested, coming together again with eager moans and greedy, clutching hands. Coming together only to take each other apart, fingers stretching and tongues painting endearments on sensitive, taut flesh. 

Perspiration drips into Will's eyes, thigh muscles aching as they squeeze Hannibal's sides. Hannibal stretches his arms above his head, grasping the bedpost, allowing Will to set his own pace. Breathing harshly, hips undulating, Will takes Hannibal deep within himself then pulls out, brushing the cockhead against his rim before taking him to the hilt again. He teases like this for as long as they can both stand it, until Hannibal's cock is purple and his knuckles are white and all Will can do is grind and writhe, impaled, his sense of rhythm fast deserting him. 

'Oh god come Hannibal please come.' A rush of words as his own climax builds. He grasps his leaking cock, tugging and twisting, moaning as his orgasm hits and he pumps his seed in uncontrollable bursts over Hannibal's stomach, dislodging himself from Hannibal's cock in the process.

Hannibal releases the headboard with a snarl and reaches for Will, flipping him onto his back and kneeling before him. He pushes Will's knees up to his chest and thrusts back in, hard and fast, hips pistoning in a frenzy of need, burying himself deeper each time. Heart still racing, Will pulls Hannibal's head down and kisses him frantically, still high from the intensity of his orgasm. And when with a muffled cry, Hannibal comes, he feeds his sighs of pleasure into Will's mouth. 

The ensuite is basic but clean, the shower stall just comfortably big enough for two. And afterwards, with soft touches and murmured words, Hannibal draws Will back into bed. 

Will allows it, but that old apprehension is back, whispering poison in his ear.

_You're on the wrong side. Bad seed. Broken._

It's almost dawn before his eyes finally close.


	9. Of Lies and Design

They have sex again the next morning. Will wakes to find his straining cock engulfed in the wet heat of Hannibal’s mouth. But it’s Will who takes Hannibal, burying himself deep after barely adequate preparation, a tinge of desperation in every thrust, every open-mouthed kiss.

Afterwards, Hannibal lies with his head on Will’s stomach, staring at the ceiling. Will strokes his hair with gentle fingers.

‘Are you still angry with me?’ Hannibal’s voice is toneless but the question itself betrays his unease.

Will’s hand stills as he considers. ‘I _was_ angry. Then I was concerned. Now I’m back to being beyond fucking pissed off.’ He resumes his rhythmic stroking. 

‘I see. What is it that you require of me, Will? An act of contrition? Self-flagellation, perhaps?’

Will digs his fingers into Hannibal’s scalp.

‘How about honesty without limitations? Trust uncluttered by addenda?’ 

‘I trust you, Will. Unreservedly. This was never about trust. It was -‘

The slight catch in Hannibal’s voice is unnerving. More than that...

‘I swear to Christ, if you are _playing_ me right now -‘

A hand comes up to cover his.

‘I am not. I am _not,_ Will.’

Will links their fingers. Squeezes sharply. ‘Then finish the goddamn sentence.’

‘It was about - fear.’

‘Yeah.’ Will is unmoved. ‘I believe we’ve already covered that. Fear of what I might do that could lead to my capture or death, wasn’t it?’ 

Hannibal pulls his hand away.

‘If only it were that simple. But you see, dear Will, my biggest fear has never been of your recklessness but your _righteousness._ ’

There is a hoarseness to Hannibal’s voice, a particular edge that Will has not heard in years. Not since bloody carnage and shattered teacups in a gleaming Baltimore kitchen. It makes his stomach churn and his eyes sting but he does not move. Does not say a word. 

‘That shining morality that shielded you once from the darkness beneath. Tarnished, perhaps, but clinging to you still.’

‘You thought that I might _leave_ you? Trade in our life together for another shot at glory and honour? And a medal to hang on my wall to look at and remind me of my courage and incorruptibility?’ Will laughs, a bitter sound. ‘For a viper like Krendler?’

‘Ah, Will.’ Hannibal looks at him, sorrowful. ‘Do you not think that I would have told you everything, threats be damned, if I had thought for a moment that you could be swayed by the lawyer’s story?’

And then, _finally,_ Will understands. He exhales shakily. ‘You weren’t afraid that I would join him. You were afraid that I would expose him. Choose the FBI.’

_Choose someone else. Again._

‘Yes.’

He closes his eyes briefly and swallows hard. Then shifts until they’re lying face-to-face. Eyes locked. A universe of two.

‘Just to be clear. Jack and Molly - I didn’t choose them over you. I chose them _despite_ you. And I failed miserably _because_ of you. Because I loved you, even when it horrified me.’ He reaches out, a gentle brush of fingers across Hannibal’s cheek. ‘And then I realised that you loved me, and suddenly there were no other choices left. Except -‘

‘Nothing.’

‘Yeah.’ He smiles, rueful. ‘And look how well that turned out.’

Hannibal smiles back, and for the first time in weeks there is no lurking shadow. ‘Didn’t it just.’

***

They're the first to arrive at St Pauli. Their table is at the back of the restaurant, next to the glass-wall kitchen. Hannibal eyes the goings-on with bright interest and Will rolls his eyes.

'You know you can't go in there and start ordering them around, right?' 

Hannibal flicks him a withering glance. Will looks around. No sign yet of the others. He leans across the table, keeps his voice low.

'I'm going to go hang around outside. Try to catch Krendler when he arrives.'

Hannibal frowns. ‘To what end? We agreed -‘

'To handle this together.’ Will nods, eyes soft. ‘And so we shall. But he wants _my_ help, remember, so I’ve got to give him the chance to talk to me alone.’

‘Very well.’ Hannibal flashes him a stern look. ‘But stay in plain sight and don’t be long.’

‘I won’t. Stop worrying. I know what I’m doing.’

Despite Hannibal's look of misgiving, Will makes his way back through the restaurant and finds a spot across the road where he can observe unobtrusively. Penny and Sean arrive first, followed by James and Kate. A few minutes pass before Krendler makes his appearance. He’s alone. _Perfect._ Will steps forward, hand raised in greeting. 

‘Mr Graham.’ Krendler looks around. ‘No Lecter?’ 

‘He’s already inside. I was held up.’ 

‘Yeah?’ Krendler steps closer. ‘So - have you thought about what I said?’

‘I have.’ Will pretends to hesitate. ‘I don’t like lying to Hannibal, but I’m prepared to help you deal with Gumb if it means getting both of you off the island. No offence.’

'None taken.’ Krendler claps him on the shoulder. ‘Look, we can’t talk now. Gumb’ll be along any minute. But how about we meet at my place - that is, Ben's place - tomorrow night? And you can help me come up with a plan to get Gumb back to the States.'

Absolutely.' _You lying sack of shit._ ‘What's the address?'

It’s on their side of the island, not too far from home. Will figures it's about three miles. _Walking distance._

***

Halfway through lunch, Gumb appears. Slinks in with a muttered apology and his trademark smirk. 

Will abruptly abandons the remains of his meal and excuses himself. Gumb's presence brings on a nauseating sense of... blackness, a seeping foulness that fills his nostrils and his mouth.

In the restroom he splashes cold water onto his face and grabs a paper towel to pat himself dry. The door opens and he glances in the mirror, coldness seizing him as he registers the unwelcome presence.

'Everything alright?' Gumb enquires with absolutely no attempt at showing concern as he saunters into the room.

'The, er, chicken was a bit too spicy for my taste,' Will manages gruffly. 

'Yeah?' Gumb grins knowingly. 'Sure you don't mean the company, _Mr Graham_?'

Will doesn’t even blink. Balls the paper up and tosses it into the trash. Looks Gumb squarely in his dead eyes. 

‘They’ll find Raspail eventually, you know. And then they’ll come after you. Is that why you’re helping Krendler? Immunity from prosecution in return for taking care of us?’

Gumb's laugh is rusty and hollow. 'Oh, that's funny. Immunity? That’s a real laugh.’ He steps closer and Will forces himself to remain still. 'You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you. But, see, there's a whole lot you don't know.' His mouth turns up in a smile that makes Will queasy. 'And I've got a notion to fill you in.'

***

Home again. Bach filling the air, mingling with the familiar scents of pine and salt and dog. Hannibal at the piano, a blood orange mojito in a crystal tumbler on the floor beside him. Will clutches his own drink as he gazes through the glass wall at the seething ocean. But it's not the ocean he's seeing. 

_I'm a frustrated bureaucrat, never making enough money to compensate for what I spend. I deserve to live well. I deserve - more._

'It's going to be a beautiful evening. I think I'll take a walk, clear my head.'

A pause in the recital. 'Alone, or would you care for some company?' 

_I meet a rich young man, the heir to a meat-packing fortune. We are introduced at some Washington soirée or other. This young man is fond of getting his own way in all things. I realise that we could be very useful to each other._

Will shakes his head, a soft smile playing about his lips, but he doesn't turn from the glass. 'I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. Why don't you work on your latest composition? I know you prefer solitude for that.'

'As you wish.' Playing resumes.

_I become the young man's political puppet. It's a fair exchange: my influence for his money. Our arrangement works beautifully for a long time. A symbiosis of greed and ambition. This is my design._

Will leaves his tumbler on the kitchen counter. Shuts a whining Ceph away in the utility room. Grabs his jacket and leaves via the back door, then doubles back around the house and sets off up the road towards the woods. 

_The young man begins seeing a psychiatrist. He laughs about it when he tells me. I realise that I've heard of the psychiatrist from my old friend, Benjamin Raspail, before he was murdered. I suspect that the psychiatrist was the killer and I share my suspicions with a mutual friend, Jame Gumb. He agrees that this Doctor Lecter sounds like a most suspicious character._

Sat nav on his phone directs Will unerringly. It's still light enough to see his way unhindered and the three miles are eaten up quickly. He passes no one else. 

_But my warnings about Lecter go unheeded by the egotistical young man. He attempts to play and ends up paying, very nearly with his life. Lecter is exposed and goes on the run. I urge the young man to forget about him. He ignores me again. This time, his luck runs out._

Raspail's house is satisfyingly remote. The track that leads up to it is long and circuitous, wood-bound. By the time Will sees the lights, dusk has fallen. 

_I am now a puppet without a master. Reduced once more to my pitiful government salary. Lecter is caught and I go to see him, intent on gloating, hoping to derive some satisfaction from his plight. But he barely notices me. I am left to seethe at my own mediocrity. Time passes and the puppet master’s affairs become the object of intense legal scrutiny. It is only a matter of time before my role is discovered. As the net closes in, I have no choice but to flee._

Will figures he's about half an hour earlier than expected. Hopefully that will throw Krendler off a little. Because he'll be expecting someone else first.

 _I make my home in Cuba. Raspail's house is a convenient bolt-hole. I am a cuckoo in his lavish empty nest._

He presses the buzzer and waits, stomach roiling with half a dozen different emotions. He's not sure yet what he will do. He'll decide when he sees Krendler's face.

 _Meeting the escaped doctor and his traitorous FBI accomplice is accidental but I will not look this gift horse in the mouth. I contact Gumb and inform him that his old friend's murderer is here, certain that he will want to exact his own revenge and so enact mine._

Will hears footsteps, which pause as his silhouette is inspected through the glass door. The blurry figure on the other side appears to hesitate. Will fingers his pocket knife through the fabric of his jeans and waits.

_I blackmail my way into the doctor's inner circle. I feed lie after lie to the ex-FBI man. I gloat at the strain this puts on their relationship as I seek to sever their connection – an eye for an eye._

Finally the door opens and Krendler appears, smile plastered to his face. 

'Mr Graham.'

_Appealing to Graham's sense of patriotism, I invite him to Raspail's house, where Gumb and I will be waiting. And once we have disposed of him, it will be Lecter's turn. This is my new design._

Krendler shoots a nervous glance past Will, into the gloaming. Will affects puzzlement.

'Are you expecting anyone else?'

_Unfortunately for me, Gumb has grown tired of my games and contemptuous of my stupidity in failing to recognise him as Raspail’s killer. Pitting two disgraced agents against each other appeals to his sense of whimsy. He decides to play his own game. Follow his own design._

'No, no. It's - just us. Come on in.'

_I've had time to think and I'm feeling vulnerable. There's no sign of Gumb and I'm worried that this is a double cross. If I die today, I die unmourned. Uninvestigated. My welcoming smile masks my fear._

Will follows him inside, pushes the door closed and secures the deadbolt with a decisive click. Turns again to face Krendler. His smile fails to reach his eyes.

'Hello Paul.'

_The mask slips._


	10. Of Breath and Blood

_‘I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.’_

The Song of Achilles on repeat. It keeps his footsteps measured, his heartbeat slow. A mile or so down this rough track and he will find Will. Alive. Surely alive. _He must be alive._ Anxiety rises like bile and he forces it down, cursing the stubborn streak that kept him rooted to his seat when Will walked out. The roiling anger that prevented him from following immediately. 

_Will._

Hannibal has left the Maybach parked at the end of the trail, partially off-road on the remote chance of passing traffic. Tendrils of light streak the sky, dawn breaking as the house comes into view. Impossible to tell from here what has occurred, but he knows – he _knows_ – that Will is inside. He had thought that keeping the address from his hot-headed husband would have been sufficient to prevent this. 

_Will._

A figure stands on the other side of the door as he approaches, head bowed, arms resting against the frame. Beloved lines and curves that he would know anywhere. Relief hardens to annoyance when Will doesn't immediately let him in. Impatiently, Hannibal jabs the buzzer and watches, narrow-eyed, as Will's head jerks up. Obediently he lifts his hand to the latch, but no tell-tale click follows. 

_Will._

When Will finally relents, opening the door with infuriating slowness, Hannibal finds himself looking into a face pale with exhaustion, cheeks burning and eyes clouded with emotion. He wants to reach out, stroke the wet curls back from Will's forehead, grasp those trembling hands - take back what is _his._ But Will's hands are stained red, his hair matted and tangled. All he wears are the jeans he left their house in the day before.

'You found me.' Will’s voice is soft.

He’s reaching out. _Now. Now that he has had his own way yet again._

'I did.' 

_Foolish boy, I will always find you._

'I had a feeling you would.' Will hesitates before adding, 'I'm glad you did.'

'Are you?' He keeps his reply deliberately clipped, cold. Doesn’t move from the threshold.

_How many times do you think you can push me and still expect forgiveness?_

Will looks at him steadily. 'Yes.'

Hannibal tilts his head, considering this. 'Why?'

'Because – because I wanted you to-' 

A bead of red drips from Will's hair onto his forehead; he attempts to wipe it away and then stares at his fingertips as if surprised. Blooded after the hunt. _Beautiful._

'To what, Will?'

_What have you done?_

' _See._ ' 

_What have you done without me?_

'Where?'

Throat working, Will points down the hallway to a room on the left. The door is open and no sounds can be detected. Insatiable curiosity battles silent rage and finally triumphs. Hannibal steps forward, past Will, and almost blanches at the heavy scents which cling to the air. Exotic blooms are scattered across the floor; beneath their sweetness hangs the sharp tang of fear and perspiration. And above all else, the coppery smell of blood. The house reeks of it. Will too. It is all too clear what has happened. No need to see, though he wants to, desperately. Still...

_How dare you do this without me? Such unmitigated greed._

So he doesn't touch his errant husband but leaves him to trail behind. Into a large dining room, where Hannibal finds... a new design.

He taps his forefinger against lips pursed tight, eyes riveted on the table.

'Your design has evolved.'

'I've had practice.' 

'Yes. Fascinating that every death is different, each victory uniquely flavoured.'

'Lazy punning, Doctor.' 

The tentative tease pulls at him. He allows himself one sharp, assessing glance.

'Are you injured?'

'I'm fine.' 

Abruptly, Hannibal turns his attention back to the table and its occupant. What was once Krendler has been transformed into interlocking parts atop a crushed torso. A criss-cross of twisted limbs, bones, ribs. Pieces placed just _so_ and _so_ appear to be markers of some kind. From the end of the table, eyes glazed as if in concentration, the head of Once-Krendler observes. He who played the game has become the game. _Snakes and ladders._ Hard to deny that this is a masterpiece of the macabre. It sings to Hannibal, gleaming iridescent. Rarely has he been so proud of his darling.

'What do you see?' Will steps closer, eagerness in his voice. 

Silence coils around them as Hannibal continues to study the bloody diorama.

'Judgement.'

He hears Will swallow, an audible click in the deathly hush. 'Yes.'

'You took him apart, laid him bare, rearranged him. A physical dismemberment in exchange for the psychological one he attempted on you.'

'And you.'

A defensive note in Will's tone. Anger sparks again, but Hannibal suppresses it; inclines his head in gracious admission. 

'Indeed. Yet you chose not to involve me.' Relentlessly soft.

'I didn't plan this.' 

Hannibal turns back to Will; watches him attempt to wipe the blood off on his jeans with hands that shake. 

'He attacked you?'

Will's furtive look is answer enough. 'He'd been attacking us both. For weeks.'

And now he sees. Really _sees._

_Fierce devotion in every cut, every rending. Retribution for an attempted severing. Of We. Of Us._

A speck of warmth eases the chill in his heart.

'Will.' Hannibal places a gentle finger beneath his husband’s chin, bringing their eyes almost level. 'I did not ask for justification. I too have been known to act on impulse.'

'Then why are you so pissed?'

He wants to kiss the blood away, but contents himself with stroking Will's bottom lip with his thumb. 'We had an agreement.'

'He forced my hand,' Will mutters, eyes sliding guiltily away. 

'You wanted him to. Isn't that why you came alone?' He traces his fingertips lightly over Will's cheek, smudging bloody freckles, following the path of the pale, dissecting scar. 

_Still it stings._

'A risky move, sweet boy,' he hisses.

But when Will reaches out, hesitant, eyes wide and soft with apology, the last embers of anger die away. The temptation to touch is too great and Hannibal tugs him close, winding his free arm about Will’s waist. Closes his eyes as he feels Will melt into him with a shaky sigh, hot forehead pressed to Hannibal's shoulder.

'You see judgement. What else?' 

'Wrath,' he murmurs into Will's hair. 'Beautiful in its savagery.'

Will nuzzles him softly. Hannibal hides a smile. _Are you preening, my love?_

' _Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?_ '

'An interesting parallel. Was he a king?'

'In Jack's world? A pretender maybe.' Will turns his head to regard the remains for the first time since they entered the room. 'A corrupt hypocrite certainly.'

Clearly there is more to this situation than Hannibal is aware of, but he doesn't allow it to trouble him any longer. Answers will come. For now it is enough just to hold the man he loves to shameless distraction _despite_ and _notwithstanding_ and _even in the face of._ Giving in to his earlier impulse, he strokes through the curls he loves so much.

'And when you look upon your work, how do you feel, Will?'

'How do I _feel_?' A long pause. 'Justified. Relieved. Sick.'

Hannibal tightens his hold. 'You're still fighting what lies beneath.'

Hesitation, then, 'Yes.' Gently. 'Always.'

Helpless in the face of such remorseless honesty, Hannibal grasps Will's chin and tilts it up to bestow a soft kiss on lips still blood-tinged. Will accepts the gesture, though only for a moment. He breaks off but doesn't pull away.

'It doesn't change this. It doesn't change us.' 

There is a heaviness to his words that Hannibal almost fears. Almost. 

'No matter.' He smiles grimly. 'If you tried to leave, I would fight to make you stay.' A whispered vow. 'I would fight for you, Will.'

Above the mantelpiece, edged in gilt, the mirror frames their strange tableau. Joined in tender embrace, curled around each other before the mosaic that was once a man. Hannibal sees, delights, allows Will to guide their mouths back together. Guilt-edged.

Their lips meet again and again, kisses desperate and fierce. Punctuated by pleas just as desperate, just as fierce.

'Don't stop. Don't ever stop.'

'What, dear boy?'

'Fighting for me. Don't ever stop fighting for me.'

'Never.' Palm cradling Will's jaw, Hannibal seeks to convey all the adoration in his heart. 'Never, Will. Not as long as I still breathe.'

And in that moment he fancies he sees something new unfurl, blooming sweetly. Tenderly he anoints Will's face with reverent kisses as he coaxes, cajoles, seeks to name it.

_Radiance._

As they part again, Will smiles. 'Then breathe, my love.'

_Will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who have read, left kudos, commented... thank you with all of my heart! I can't tell you what your support has meant to me. <3
> 
> There is one final timestamp which marks the end of this series. Just follow the link to find it!


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